


Detritus

by Perrault



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/F, F/M, Infidelity, Lmfao idk, Sansa w lotsa ppl, like hecka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2018-11-06 15:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11039238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perrault/pseuds/Perrault
Summary: Does it look like I know what the fuck I'm doing?Fic. Sansa/lots of people. Well, three. No, shit, four. No happy endings. Well no, there are "happy endings," *nudge nudge wink wink* but they're poorly written and at least one of them is highly dub-con-y.





	1. Chapter 1

"My lord, there is no reason to believe that the Lady Lannister will not bear many fine sons should she be given the chance. I do however fear that she will spoil if she is allowed to ride and play as freely as she has been thus far. It is not good for a woman to spend so many hours out of doors, where she may exhaust herself." The maester's voice dripped with frustration. 

Tywin watched as his young wife crept stealthily through the tangle of underbrush to surprise the Tyrell girl, Sansa laughing with delight when she succeeded in making Margery spin round with a breathless curse. 

Tywin's mouth twitched as he watched Margaery gently stroke Sansa's cheek with the back of her hand, her gaze clearly and inappropriately lingering at the younger girl's pouting mouth. Tywin turned away when Sansa took Margaery's thumb gently between her lips, ignoring the soft sighs that rose from the garden. 

“She is but twelve years old," he said. "She must be allowed to play a while longer.” 

___________

Tywin pretended not to notice Sansa's red eyes when they stood witness to Joffrey and Margaery's wedding, or her soft hiccup when the new queen laid a delicate kiss upon her boy husband's sallow cheek. 

He spoke to the maester again that night. 

“She has bled, my lord.” 

“But her skin is still milky, her hips still thin. I’ll not put a babe in her while she is so weak that the time might kill her. When the sun’s kissed her a little more brown, when her breasts are a little less in bud, I’ll send for her. But not before. To bury one wife is tragedy, to bury two is rather more like carelessness.”   
________________________

“Not before she is fifteen.”

Cersei laughed. “You are old, Lord Hand. Think you you’ll live to see such an auspicious time?”

Tywin sneered. “I have won your wars for you, your Grace. I have restored peace to this ragged confederation that you yet call your realm. Such a life has made me hard to kill, even in peacetime. What is age next to arrows? Lady Sansa, your mother by marriage, is thirteen years old. Two years is but a wink to her, and little more than a season to me. I’ll set her up as a Mother of the Realm, no less than is her rightful station. The first son for Casterly Rock, the second for Winterfell, and whatever daughters she bears will be wed to the sons of the highest houses. And she’ll bear them all the more happily and healthily for my waiting.” 

__________________

Tywin arrived at Casterly Rock a full month before his scheduled visit, three months after Sansa's fifteenth nameday. He strode into his wife's solarium unannounced, surprising her as she tallied the Rock's accounts. She scrambled to her feet, and he could not help but notice as she attempted to conceal the modifications to the lions' heads embroidered on her sleeves, the elongated, narrow skull and snout, the reduced mane, and of course, the red and gold thread replaced with grey. She swept her skirts into a deep curtesy rising at his invitation. 

“Have I displeased you, my lord?” Sansa’s eyes were wide.

“Not at all my lady wife,” Tywin drawled. “Why, is there aught I should know?”

Sansa blushed. “No, my lord. Only, you are so rarely home, and never arrive unannounced.”

“The matters of state require my immediate presence in the capitol, my lady.” Tywin raised an eyebrow. “Would you rather the King tax his ravens with bringing our every quibble?”

“No, I-“

“Or would you rather return with me to King’s Landing.”

Sansa turned white. “No, my lord,” she whispered. “Please I beg of you, let me remain here at Casterly Rock.”

Tywin nodded. “I think that wise. You have proved yourself a capable castellan in the past months. I should hate to part with your services. You’ve a fine head for figures, and an eye for detail. There has been little excess at Casterly Rock of late.” 

He paused.

“But even so, I should not be gone from you so often. It is a husband's duty to care for his wife. So I shall return to you for a week every three months. We shall meet at one of the smaller holdings, a sort of midway between here and King's Landing. That will minimize the strain on us both.” 

Sansa nodded. “As is your wish, lord husband.”

“Wife,” and here Tywin paused. “It is time you shared my bed for its intended purpose.” 

Sansa’s breath stilled for a moment. “Yes, my lord.”

Tywin gestured for her to sit. 

“What do you know of the matter of getting children, Sansa?” He asked, clearing his throat. 

Sansa's hands twisted in her lap. “I know what I am to expect, my lord. Her Grace, Queen Margaery, has been so kind as to explain my duties with greatest gentleness and delicacy.”

Tywin closed his eyes briefly. Thank the gods for that at least. 

“You know it is my duty to supply both Casterly Rock and Winterfell with an heir. A son for each seat.”

“Will my lord’s son Tyrion not do for Casterly Rock?”

“Tyrion has been sent to the North to govern there. He will hold Winterfell for our second son until he is of age, whereupon he will return to King’s Landing and continue to serve the crown on the Small Council.” Tywin permitted himself a small sigh before he continued:

“My youngest son is not suited to governing a small plot such as this, glorious and rich as it is. Among Tyrion's many faults are his restlessness and a greedy mind hungry for stimulation. He is also, it cannot be denied, an incorrigible gadabout. And I cannot suffer him to inherit my land. Furthermore, lady wife, to leave you without heirs to the south as well as the north could well put you in danger after my inevitable death.” 

He heard her draw in a breath. 

“Are you unwell, husband?”

Tywin chuckled. “No, my wife. But I am nearly five and fifty. I will live to put two babes in your belly and see them grow to young men, but I doubt it will be much longer than that.”

“And if my lord should die even before then?”

Tywin sobered. “Then, should my daughter the queen mother be yet alive, there are arrangements for you and our children to be sent to Dorne, to remain in the care of your good-granddaughter Myrcella. You will likely be married again, within Arianne’s court, perhaps even to the Red Viper himself.”

Sansa grimaced. “I’m not sure I could endure marriage such as that, my lord.” 

“Why not, you’re already enduring marriage to a man far worse.”

Sansa's cheeks turned a bright pink. "I do not think the Viper would have allowed me to keep my maidenhead so long."

Tywin gave a sardonic laugh. "Say what I will of the Dornish, there's not a rapist living in all of their godforsaken desert."

"Nor likely a murderer of children." Sansa's voice was quiet, but there was an undercurrent of venom that caused Tywin's gaze snap to meet hers. He could not puzzle what had caused the sudden turn, but his wife's eyes were bright with anger. 

"Careful," he warned. "You are a child yourself, best not to prod the lion whose paws are still stained with Targaryen infants' blood."

"Stark's too. Will you add mine to it?"

"It is your Lannister name that is protecting you now, girl, do not forget that."

Sansa laughed, mocking and shrill. "I am a Stark yet. And forever."

Tywin's eyes darkened, and a fire kindled in his bowels, twisting and licking at him, more pleasurable than a harlot's tongue. When he spoke, his voice was soft and even. 

"I meant to take you to bed tonight, wife. Am I to take this sudden change of heart as a refusal?"

"Nothing of the kind, my lord."

Tywin nodded pensively. "Well, then, to bed." And he reached Sansa in a mere three strides, before tossing her easily over his shoulder and walking up the two flights of stairs to his bedchamber. 

When Tywin at last deposited her upon the thick mattress, he found himself unmoved by the sight of the tears on her cheeks. She'd wished to play the spitfire, he would play the tyrant. Tenderness be damned, along with her ingratitude. To her credit, Sansa had not made a sound, not a single indignant squeak at her unceremonious departure from the solarium. 

"Stand," Tywin barked. "I will undress you."

Sansa stood on quivering legs, turning her back to her husband, who unlaced her stays with a surprising gentleness, tracing the calloused pads of his fingers over her narrow shoulders, skimming up to brush against her hairline. Sansa shuddered at the unexpected stimulus, fear like metal sitting heavy on her tongue. 

When Tywin at last had her down to her shift, he placed his hands on her hips, turning her around before taking her chin in his large hand. 

"Where is the wolf I saw only a few minutes ago?"

When Sansa said nothing, Tywin bent his head and pressed a kiss to her trembling lips.

"Do you feel like a wolf now?" He murmured against her mouth, his hands rising to pass gently over her back, arms, belly, hips, and buttocks, before pressing her backwards to fall into the welcoming mattress. 

He crawled to crouch above her, pressing kisses to her lips, hair, and neck. Reaching down, he hiked up the thin linen shift till it pooled around Sansa's waist, and palmed her cunt through her small clothes. 

Sansa's whole body seized with terror, rippling as though her limbs were about to collapse into water. 

Tywin made a soothing sound, his hand never leaving its place above Sansa's small clothes. He pressed firmly down, moving his hand up and around that region of her body, sliding back to press against her asshole, across her cunny, up to press against her clit, before rubbing over the lower part of her belly covered by the small clothes, only to repeat the process again, and again, until Sansa lay quivering beneath him, her long, flaming hair fanning out upon the pillows, her lower lip caught between her teeth. 

Tywin fought the urge to grind his erection into the mattress. 

Instead he leaned up and pressed his lips to Sansa's ear. 

"Tell me wife, is this what a Stark would do, lie here twitching for a lion's cock?"

Sansa shuddered, a muffled sob caught between her teeth. 

Tywin grazed his teeth over her earlobe. 

"I'm going to put a babe in you, little wife. And what you'll birth is a lion cub. Not a wolf, not a fish, not a rose," and he felt Sansa go painfully still, "a lion." he reaffirmed. 

And at once he tore the small clothes from her lower body and allowed his hand to sink into the soft cushion of her cunt, the fingers of his opposite hand digging into the soft flesh of her belly, his mouth biting at her linen covered breasts. 

"Take off your shift, and put your hands above your head," he ordered her. "Do not move."

He shuffled backwards until his head lay between her legs, resting against her knee. He gazed appreciatively at her twitching, gasping cunt, the honey gushing from it, crying out for him, his touch, his cock, for his answering wave that would make her a fecund pool where future Lannisters would breed. He glanced upward and found Sansa peering down at him, eyes wide, chest heaving, her knuckles white as she clutched at the blankets, pillows, whatever came to her grasping fingers. He rewarded her fascination with a long probing kiss, his tongue dipping to taste her, slipping between her folds to make the first venture into her virgin body. He wondered, had the Tyrell girl told her only female lovers did this?

He slid a finger, thick and scarred, into her, relishing her gasps at the intrusion. Soon he added a second, slipping it easily alongside the first, curling the two so that they would scrape across the roof of her cunt, before ducking his head to bite gently at her clit. He suckled there for what felt like hours, retreating often to blow cool air across her folds, or to bite at the downy insides of her thighs. He teased her again and again, preventing her from toppling over that unknown cliff, keeping her just short of ecstasy, before at last pressing his thumb cruelly hard into her clit, curling his fingers up to dig into her soft insides. 

Sansa shrieked and sobbed, her cunt clamping down on Tywin's fingers as her ecstasy seized her. Tywin was up in an instant, pulling his fingers from her, jerking open his trousers and rolling up his sleeves before turning Sansa onto her belly and sheathing himself in her cunt in a single vicious stroke. He assumed a careful, rhythmic pace, determined to last and to leave himself imprinted across her memory. 

Sansa's body shuddered with a combination of revulsion and orgasm, waves of pleasure immediately chased by ones of fear. She bit into the coverlet, determined to give voice to neither her pleasure nor her fear. It seemed to last for hours. Tywin seemed displeased at her silence, digging his fingers into the thin padding over her hips. 

Suddenly he jerked her up so they sat against one another, her back to his chest, her head lolling against his shoulder. He palmed her breasts, her belly, before reaching back down to play with her folds, slipping his fingers over her clitoris, rubbing just above where his cock disappeared into her distended cunt. 

Sansa batted ineffectually at his hands. "Please," she moaned, "its too much, it hurts."

"Does it," Tywin purred, his breath coming harsh against her hair. "Did it hurt before? Tell the truth now."

Sansa choked and shook her head. 

"It doesn't hurt, little wife, at least not in the usual way. It hurts because you think you can't possibly do it again, but you can."

Sansa whimpered, shaking her head. 

"You can," Tywin said. "And you will, because I desire it."

He pressed Sansa forward until her cheek lay pillowed on the mattress. 

"Touch yourself," he commanded. "Touch yourself as I touched you."

Sansa silently reached down and began to fumble between her legs, her fingers slipping to brush against Tywin's cock as it pumped into her. 

Tywin felt his own release begin to build at the base of his spine. 

"Hurry," he spat, and grinned when he felt Sansa's fingers speed up. At last, a weak fluttering, but enough to satisfy him, feathered out through her cunt. He knocked her hand away, turning her onto her back, and took over, forcing the spasms to continue, before at last spending himself deep within her, her soft whimpers and pleas for mercy unheard, his other hand clutching her small breast. 

He lay above her until his cock softened and slipped from her body. He rolled off her, staring up at the canopy above them. 

"You'll sleep here from now on."

"Will this happen every night, my lord?"

Tywin snorted. "Hardly. Twice a week should be sufficient to produce a babe, though I reserve the right, as any husband would, to use your body for pleasure by other means. And to keep you naked while in this chamber."

He gathered Sansa into his arms, drawing her to rest stiffly against his chest, tracing her bones with his fingertips, bumping over the scars that latticed her back, testaments to his fool of a grandson's cruelty. He smirked at the traces of blood on the sheets, proof of her maidenhead. 

"You might have been a Stark, but you're a Lannister now. You're claimed, little wife, that can never be undone."

He pressed a kiss to her unmoving lips. 

"Go," he said, with a gentle push, "wash."

Sansa rolled unceremoniously away from him, placing her feet on the cold flagstone floor. 

She bent to pick up her shift. 

"Leave it," Tywin said. "To watch a beautiful woman walk about naked is a pleasure few men my age can enjoy without having to pay for it."

Sansa took a steadying breath before walking to the small bureau which held an ewer and pitcher. She took up the cloth, wetted it, and patted it delicately over her underarms and breasts, before turning her attention to her cunt and thighs. She resisted the urge to scrub, grimacing at the blood and seed that came away against the cloth.

"Better?" Tywin asked, his tone sardonic. 

Sansa nodded. 

"Good. Bring me a fresh cloth. Wet it a little."

Sansa watched from the corner of her eye as her husband cleaned himself, clinically swiping the cloth over and underneath his cock before tucking it back into his trousers. 

"Come here," he said, reaching for her. 

Sansa went, surprised to find herself tugged into his arms until she settled crosswise on his lap, her ear pressed above his heart. 

"Now tell me," he said, "what made my mannerly wife disappear, and replaced her with the sharp tongued harridan I encountered downstairs?"

Sansa's jaw clenched. 

"Sansa," Tywin's voice was stern. "Tell me at once."

Sansa kept her eyes fixed firmly upon the wall in front of her, speaking through her teeth. "I am angry my lord."

"Clearly."

"Angry that you would demand that I bear you children when it may cost me my life."

Tywin raised an eyebrow. "I will spare no expense to have you treated by the best maesters in the kingdom, Sansa, would you doubt that?"

"It is not childbirth I fear," she spat. "It is that bitch in king's landing."

Tywin's grip remained deceptively lax. "Have a care for how you speak of the Queen Mother, Sansa."

Sansa spun away from him, kneeling on the mattress, her eyes blazing. 

"You have a care! That is your responsibility. You are my husband, would be father to my children, it is your duty to protect me. Instead you tell me that I am to be shipped to Dorne, where you are hated above all others, if you are to die before your fat daughter?"

Tywin's patience grew thin. "Sansa," he barked, "enough!"

"I was safe till now!" She shrieked, "I am as good as dead now. All the kingdoms knew you hadn't bedded me, now I'll have a child, and I'm a traitor thrice over! Neither Dorne nor the North will have me. Where will I go? To Essos and its pleasure houses?"

Tywin's hand struck out like scorpion's sting, catching Sansa deftly on the apple of her left cheek, more sound than pain. A red spot bloomed on Sansa's livid face. 

Tywin's voice was deadly soft. "You are the lady of the most powerful estate in the greatest kingdom of the known world. I expect you to act like it."

Sansa's eyes were dry. 

___________________

When the King and his wife visited Casterly Rock a few months later, both Sansa and Margaery's bellies bore the slight but tell tale evidence of pregnancy. The King was elated at his Queen's condition, and poked cruelly at Sansa's, calling her his beloved grandmother, asking if she were not too old, her body not too scarred to bear her lord his children. 

When he lay drunk and uncaring on the floor of the hall, his grandfather bade him be taken upstairs and put to bed. Margaery begged Sansa to be allowed to lie in a chamber apart from her husband, pleading her belly and the journey. Sansa naturally agreed. Tywin watched his wife twine her fingers about the queen's as she led the older woman to the bedchamber. He could see Sansa quiver a mile away, and swore he could have smelled the dew between her legs for leagues. 

______

"Oh how I've missed you beloved," Margaery said, all but throwing Sansa against the door once it had closed. 

She reached down and began to hastily pull up Sansa's skirts, knocking the other woman's hands away until she touched her curls, felt her dampness. She guided Sansa's hand to do the same, and they rocked against each other, hands in concert, tears of relief streaking their cheeks. 

"Off, off, off," Sansa whispered, tugging ineffectually against Margaery's laces. 

"No time," Margaery replied. "I've wanted you for a year, I can't wait another moment."

She pushed Sansa unceremoniously to the floor, before pushing the girl's skirts up to pool around her waist. She knelt between Sansa's legs, hiking up her own skirt as she did so, lowering herself down until they were pressed against one another, legs and fabric tangled, cunts sealed in a kiss. They groaned in unison. Sansa reached between her legs and tugged her small clothes loose, falling out of the intricate Myrrish knot that her handmaid (gifted to her by Margery) had taught her. Margaery did the same, and reaching between them, took their arousal upon her fingertips before spreading it between them until they could no longer know where one ended and the other began. 

Margaery began to thrust against Sansa, the friction and wetness non penetrative but intimate, futile but full. 

When Sansa rose to meet her in a kiss, Margaery instead tucked her face into the hollow of Sansa's neck, sealing her mouth over one of the delicate arches of the Lady of the Rock's collarbone, and sucked.   
__________

6 months later, Sansa gave birth to a son. 

Within a week, Margaery followed suit, to twin boys. And at that moment, she put her husband aside, her task complete, and became determined to have Sansa for her own again. 

____________

When Margaery sent Sansa a wide, hollow phallus carved from bone, the poor child had no idea what to do with it, aside of course, from the obvious. When the harness, a contraption of soft leather and pearls, arrived a month later, and the queen's invitation to court with it, she began to understand. She bade farewell to her child and all her household and rode for King's Landing. 

Margaery's letter had specifically requested that Sansa wear her "gift" so that she might inspect it. The letter contained detailed instructions, most specifically that Sansa was not to wear small clothes so that the gift might best fulfill its purpose. Also that Sansa was to wear her hair braided in a crown, and to cover herself with a veil of grey silk. Last of all, Sansa was to ride the last 5 miles to the city, rather than use her litter, and to present herself to the queen forthwith. 

When Sansa at last arrived at King's Landing, she knew the deviousness of Margaery's gift. The strip of velvet soft pearls that lay against her had chafed deliciously as she rode, and she found herself standing before her queen, sweating and flushed, her veil clinging to the tip of her nose. 

Margaery received her alone in her solarium. Joffrey had been ill more than a season, and the twin princes played, happy and golden haired, in Highgarden, far from both their parents. 

Margaery's pupils were wide and her lips parted in a breathless but wicked smile.

"Well, my lady," she said. "What a pleasure to receive you at last."

She walked delicately up to Sansa, placed a hand gently at her waist. Without removing Sansa's veil, she pressed a kiss to her lover's lips. "Are you wearing it?" She asked. 

Sansa could only nod. Margaery stooped, and ran her hand along Sansa's leg until she felt the heavy phallus bump against her knuckles. She ignored it however, and instead pulled the harness aside, before slipping her long fingers into Sansa's shuddering cunt. The tall girl groaned and Margaery smiled. She removed her hand and stood. 

"Turn around, sweetling, I'll undress you."

Sansa obeyed wordlessly. Margaery unlaced her at an almost painfully leisurely pace. When Sansa at last stood in her shift, the shadow of the phallus hanging darkly between her legs, Margaery removed the veil. Reaching around, she placed a light hand on Sansa's belly, before pulling the other woman firmly back against her chest. She trailed her fingers to trace over the phallus, stroking it as she would a man's. She propped her chin against Sansa's shoulder. 

"Do you like your present?" she asked.

Sansa could only nod. 

Margaery smiled. "Should we play with it now, or later?"

"Now," Sansa croaked.

"What was that?"

"Now, please, my queen. Touch me, please."

Margaery pretended confusion. "But I am touching you," she said and could not contain a small gasp of pleasure when Sansa thrust ineffectually against her teasing hand. 

"I see," she said. "Well, beloved, you'll have to remove your shift for that."

There was a ripping sound as Sansa scrambled to undress. She stood, sweating, naked, the phallus bumping against the inside of her thigh. 

Margaery frowned. "You don't look excited to see me, beloved. Aren't you happy to see me?"

Sansa was confused. "Most happy, my queen. Forgive me, I do not-"

Margaery tightened a strap on the harness, and the phallus at once stood erect. 

"Ah," she said, smiling. "That's better."

__________

Later that night, Sansa lay beneath her husband, clutching at his arms, willing the conception of a second child, that she might put him aside as Margaery had done with her own.   
_______

Within a year, Sansa gave birth to a son and daughter. The two were received with joy by all but their father, whose face darkened at the news that the gods had seen fit to bless him again with twins. 

They were immediately separated, sequestered to opposite wings of the castle, at least for the duration of their father's visits. At last, Sansa convinced her husband to allow the twins to be reunited, and she closed her eyes in relief as the two, finally side by side, slept in peace.   
______________

Tywin did not love his wife, but he thought his feelings for her more than sufficient to the task of marriage. 

She was eighteen and had given him three children, two sons and a daughter. Not even Joanna had managed as much in such little time. She was a natural mother too, and Tywin took obvious pleasure in watching her suckle their children, sitting on the wide sill of their chamber's largest window, her bodice unlaced, one white breast obscured by the tawny head of their son or daughter. Oftentimes she would look up and smile, and he had found himself incapable of not doing the same. Unlike those of his older children, Tyrol and Ursula's birth had been easy, and Jaron's had lasted a mere four hours. Had they been more difficult, Tywin did not think Sansa would look at him with such an easy smile. 

Their relationship had become increasingly tender, though Tywin knew it would never resemble a marriage of equals. He ruled her and did so with careful regard for her safety as well as her feelings. In turn she was his first confidant, his castellan, and his lover. 

She walked naked in his chambers after sunset, and he took pleasure from her body as he wished. And, he thought smugly, she took pleasure in his. His maester was careful to inform him of the Lady Lannister's cycles, and when she was most fertile. Tywin had no desire to get his wife child again immediately, but he wished for more, that he might indeed make his wife a mother of the realm, protected and revered for generations after his death. 

__________

Sansa returned to King's Landing thrice a year, each for a period of thirty days. In that time she lay alongside her queen in the afternoons and beneath her husband at nights. 

She was in Margaery's bed when the dragons arrived. 

The war raged for five years, and by its close, Tywin was dead, and the houses of Tyrell, Baratheon, and Lannister all but extinguished.   
___________

At the age of 29 Sansa married her once brother, Jon Targaryen. Her waist had thickened some with childbearing. Five in all. But riding and five years of war had kept her lean, and the miscarriage of her sixth child had all but permanently robbed her of appetite. 

Margaery was married to Aegon the pretender, both allowed to live on condition that they both retire to Highgarden, and their children never stand for power. The twin princes, Robert and Tytos, had died in a storm of dragon fire, their bodies later cast into the indifferent sea. Their grandmother, the Queen Mother, disappeared in the fog of war, while Jaime had died in the initial assault. 

Tommen was sent to the Wall. Myrcella's marriage to Trystane Martell was annulled and their children disinherited, the former princess and her two daughters entering the novitiate of the Silent Sisters until it was reported that three had died in a wave of sweating sickness six months later. 

Sansa recalled her first husband with real indifference, but she ached for the security of Casterly Rock and her standing there. In that castle she had ruled as even as she had been ruled. She had been loved and feared. And her children had been with her. With the rise of the Mother of Dragons, to keep ones children nearby had become a privilege for those lucky enough to have made over their allegiance early. Sansa and her family were not among them, save Tyrion who had ceded Winterfell when the resurrected Jon Targaryen, then Snow, arrived with his army of Wildlings without resistance. 

Tyrion had adopted Jaron as his own, saving himself from marriage, and sat restored to Casterly Rock as had always been his right. 

Meanwhile Tyrol found himself consigned to the Queensguard while Ursula, Germaine, and Lyrra were betrothed to lords of Dorne and the Riverlands, before being removed from their mother's arms to spend their childhoods, with the other daughters of the great houses, as handmaidens to the dragon queen. 

As Sansa stood in the Godswood of her childhood home, the cloak of her maiden house draped over her shoulders, she glanced at the small white haired woman beside her. Daenerys Stormborn had ridden North on her black dragon to give the widowed Lady of the Rock in marriage to the newfound prince, who would be King in the North, and whose children would inherit the iron throne, uniting the seven kingdoms once more under the descendants if he whose name might have once been Stark. 

Daenerys had pulled Sansa aside before entering the Godswood. 

"I know you may find the thought of bedding the man you once called your brother repellent, sister," she said, tucking a strand of red hair behind Sansa's ear. "But I urge you to set those feelings aside. He is a prince of the realm, and he has only ever regarded you with true kindness. Give him children, the sex of whom I care not. Do me and my kingdom this service, and I will know your loyalty to me is true, and there will be no end to your reward." And she kissed Sansa delicately on the mouth, her lips warm with blood.   
_____

Jon caressed his wife with a gentle hand, tracing the lines of her face, the column of her neck, the swoop of her collarbone. 

"Will you let me make you happy, Sansa?" he whispered. 

Sansa stared back at him, unseeing. "I do not understand."

"Will you let me make you happy? What may I give you that will make you smile."

Sansa's eyes slid closed. "If my king will give me a babe I will be very happy."

Jon sighed. "I must give you a babe whether or not brings you happiness, Sansa. What else?"

A single tear leaked from the corner of Sansa's eye. 

Jon resisted his desire to kiss the damp trail. 

"Why do you weep, sweetheart?" he whispered. 

"I want-" Sansa hiccuped. 

"What?"

"I want to see my children. Please. Please, Jon, if you ever loved me, let me see my children."

Jon felt a hot knot of shame grow in his belly. 

"Sansa, I--"

"You cannot," she said, flatly. "Then give me a child, Jon, and help me take this pain away."

She sat up and shucked her nightgown over her head, before lying back, her head resting against the pillows, her legs only slightly parted, her eyes closed. 

Jon reached for her, unable to quell the desire he felt for her. He kissed her mouth again and again, elated when he at last felt her respond, her lips moving against his. He traced his fingers from her jawline, to her sternum, to the nest of curls between her legs. 

He heard her soft sigh, and slipped inside her.   
______

When Oberyn Martell came to Winterfell a year and a half later, he arrived alone and in somber shades of blue. His consort had died in childbirth and his only son with her halfway through the war for the iron throne. 

He was as old as Tywin had been when Sansa had first been married. But his silvered hair was still coarse and thick, and the lines at his eyes and mouth were light, and in spite of his troubles, told how he was more inclined to laugh than frown. 

Jon watched as his cousin regarded his wife with open intrigue, Oberyn's eyes tracing Sansa's body from head to toe with the sort of refined indelicacy that prompts a man to flush with pride rather than jealousy. 

When Sansa excused herself to pray in the Godswood, Oberyn turned to him with a wry smile. 

"Is it wise to let your wife pray so much, cousin? Mayhaps the Stranger answers her prayer to kill the babes in her womb and keep her barren."

Jon felt his hackles rise. "There is no Stranger in the Godswood, cousin. And the Old Gods have little care for the entreaties of men, and still less for those of women. If my wife does not conceive a child, I think it less to do with prayers than my own deficiency."

Oberyn cocked an eyebrow. "You think so? Few men would bear the failure of their wives-"

Jon cut him off abruptly: "The Lady Sansa gave her first husband five children and was pregnant with her sixth at the time of the war. There is nothing in my wife's makeup to suggest that she is incapable of bearing children, therefore the fault must lie with me."

Jon looked searchingly into Oberyn's face. 

"Does that please you, cousin? That the product of the marriage that undid all you loved will himself be the end of Rhaegar's line."

Oberyn gave a practiced nonchalant flick of his wrist, but Jon could see the tension that sat in the set of his jaw and the high line of his shoulders. 

"I am an old man, King in the North. I have no use for such anger anymore. But you and the Lady Sansa must conceive children. Sons, daughters, it matters not, but as many as she can bear and you can bear to give." Oberyn leaned forward intently. "There is a remedy in my homeland, one that is most often used by old men with pretty wives, that enlivens the seed. Let me send for it."

Jon shook his head. "There is no need--"

"There is every need. Should there be no children when you die, there will be war. I will not send more of my daughters to burn for Targaeryen pride."

Jon flushed. "Send for it if you think it right, Oberyn. But I expect nothing from it."

Oberyn nodded. "In the meantime, I think I will remain here a while longer, I find your Northron climate agrees with my hot blood."

____________

Later that night, Jon lay beside his wife in the dark. Reaching out for her, he drew her into his arms. 

"I love you, Sansa." Jon whispered. 

Sansa rolled to face him, her eyes dark. "How can you know?"

___________

Oberyn searched Winterfell high and low for the Queen of the North only to be told it was her custom to visit the stables that morning and to ride out if it suited her. He found Sansa inspecting a worn bridle, instructing her secretary to make careful notes on the points of wear, the type of leather, etc. Sansa had found it impossible to abandon her duties as castellan and relished the small responsibilities Jon allowed her to take on without impeaching her dignity as Queen. 

"Your Majesty," Oberyn grinned as he strode up to her. "Will you ride out with me today?"

Sansa arched a single delicate eyebrow. "If it please your highness."

Oberyn nodded vigorously. "It does. Moreover, I have news that may please you." He stepped closer to speak in her ear. "Of your son and daughters in New Kingslanding."

Sansa's belly twisted in pain and she steadied herself against the wall. "You've seen them?"

Oberyn nodded, no longer smiling, but his eyes shining in the sympathy of one parent to another. "I have."

Sansa reached to clutch at him, but Oberyn caught her hand gently in his own. "Let us ride out first, majesty. Then I will tell you everything."

Sansa took a shuddering breath before nodding, turning to bark at a stablehand for her and the Prince Oberyn's horse. A half hour later they galloped out of the gates, Sansa's customary guard abandoned, frothing with frustration. 

The two rode hard for several miles, before Sansa veered sharply to the left, leading Oberyn to a small clearing, bisected by a small creek that ran sparkling to join the large rivers of the south. Sansa dismounted in a flurry of black and silver. 

"Tell me of my children," she cried. 

Oberyn slipped cleanly from his saddle before sitting upon the damp grass with a sigh. 

"You should not wear so much black, my Queen, it ill becomes a newly wedded bride."

"Prince Oberyn, do not toy with me, either tell me of my children or I shall have the head struck from your shoulders when we return."

Oberyn shrugged. "Your children are well. Tyrol trains with Lord Mormont, and your daughters grow more like you--"

"Stupid and ignorant--"

"Beautiful and kind, everyday. Your Ursula is sublimely clever, skilled with languages, most befitting a future princess of Dorne. Germaine is quick with a needle as well as her tongue, and there is no maid who is her match for singing. Lyrra is truly her aunt's double in spirit if yours in looks. Your sister, the Mistress of Whispers, asks the Dragon Queen daily to take her under her tutelage."

Sansa sagged with relief. "And aught of Jaron?"

Oberyn smiled. "A most handsome boy. A credit to you and his half brother whom he is expected to succeed as Hand as well as Lord of Casterly Rock. He is often in Kingslanding, and treats his siblings with real tenderness. I do not think I have ever seen them so happy as when they are together."

"Did they speak of me?" Sansa whispered. 

Oberyn's face stilled. "Your majesty--"

Her voice reached a hysterical pitch. "Do they forgive me? Do they hate me? Oh Gods, my Prince, I never would have left them--"

Oberyn all but leapt to gather her into his arms. "My queen, they miss you desperately. They each love you as much as any child could love their mother. Ursula reads your letters aloud to her sisters nightly, and your sons whisper of coming North to rescue you."

Sansa looked horrified. "They cannot!"

"And they will not, the half-man has done right to persuade them of the dangers. But bear the King a child, my lady, and you will come south again."

Sansa face shuttered closed, and she pushed Oberyn away. "I have tried, my Prince. My husband's seed will not take." 

"Have you done all to assist him--"

"Of course I have!" She spat. "I let him take me on all fours, like a dog, I lay on my back, my legs in the air, for hours on end. I have consulted with Maesters, with midwives, I have sent ravens to the sorceresses of Essos, but it matters naught if my husband's seed is rotten!" She wheeled round to face him. "Do you not think that I would whelp my brother a thousand pups if it meant that I might see my five cubs again?"

Oberyn felt sick with shame. "I have offended you, majesty--"

"You have, but it matters naught." Sansa seemed to diminish before his eyes. 

"I know what will happen if I do not conceive. I will be put aside. Made a septa, or a courtesan. Married again, perhaps, to a man who has little regard for me. A Northman who will look at me and call me traitor to my blood. A whore of house Lannister. I will die, here, in the north. Far from my children, from the castle I'd made my home, from the woman who was my friend, my greatest love-" she looked at Oberyn. "How is my Margaery?" 

Oberyn indicated no surprise. "Most unhappy."

Sansa nodded. "Then, as always, we are a pair."

"I have spoken to your husband of a remedy from my homeland. A spice it is, to make men's seed strong and ripe again."

"I put no trust in such remedies, my prince."

"Nor do I, most often. Nonetheless I have known it to work from time to time."

"I'd much rather use a more certain remedy." Sansa's eyes were bright. "You had twenty children, last I heard."

"Twelve, my queen. My reputation enlarges itself without my bidding. But I lost seven in the fires."

"Will you not let me give you another?"

Oberyn shook his head. "That is unwise, even to suggest it."

"Why?" Sansa asked, her fingers already removing her hood and cloak, casting them aside. 

Oberyn watched her with clinical interest before reaching out to still her trembling hands. 

"Majesty--"

"Sansa," she whispered. 

"Sansa. I have never dared to love a queen. For the very simple reason that it would risk my kingdom and my life to do so." He traced the small mountain chain of her knuckles. "I cannot do what you ask."

She took his left hand gently in one of her own, drawing it up to rest easily upon her breast, placing his right at her waist. "Can you not?" She whispered, looking searchingly into his face. "Truly, Oberyn?"

Oberyn's hand at her breast tightened, and she let her head tilt back with a gasp. Gods. Jon never dared touch her so. 

She felt Oberyn's lips at her neck, the scratch of his beard. She startled when she felt him begin to undo the laces of her dress with practiced ease. 

"I'll not have you against a tree with your skirts about your waist," he growled. "I'm not a stable boy tumbling a kitchen maid. I'll have you in the grass, like Rhaegar had Lyanna, but I'll see all of you while I do."

Within moments she found herself naked, her arms trembling at her sides. Oberyn swiftly stripped down, his cock lying heavy and dark between his legs. He drew Sansa to him, catching her chin, stroking her cheek. He hardly had to lower his head to kiss her. He ghosted a hand over the crowning braid she wore. 

"How I'd love to undo this braid," he whispered.   
"But if I were to attempt to restore it later, it would be in a Dornish style. I'd be unable to resist."

Sansa shivered. "Best not then."

Oberyn smirked before kissing her again. Sansa's hand hung in the air, uncertain of where she was permitted to touch him, until Oberyn took it and guided it to his cock, which fattened and swelled beneath her touch. 

"Are you sure, my queen," he whispered against her mouth. "It is not too late."

Sansa pulled back. She stroked his beard, unable to meet his eyes. "I've had enough of dragons," she replied. "Give me my revenge. A viper to take the Iron Throne."

Her words worked something wondrous in him. He pulled her to him with a gasp, biting uncaringly at her mouth, neck, and shoulders. He laid her upon her cloak in the grass, kindling in her the fire that once only Margaery had been able to inspire. 

________________

"You must stay here a while longer," Sansa said, tracing circles upon Oberyn's chest. "Should your seed not take."

Oberyn lifted her face and kissed her. "You worry overmuch, beloved. You and I are skilled in making children. The seed will take, and the harvest will come to much rejoicing."

"There will need to be more." Sansa said, her eyes glittering. "At least two more."

Oberyn smiled ruefully. "Ah, three heads for the Dragon?"

"For the Viper."

________

Nine months later, Rhaella came angry, naked, and wailing, into the world. 

Some magic had been worked in Sansa's womb, or else Nymeros-Martell's hidden Targaeryen blood and the Tully's fair complexion had conspired together and bleached the babe of her father's tawny skin, a tuft of white hair crowned the tiny head. 

Sansa laughed with joy to hear her daughter cry, and received her into her arms, her milk already leaking from her. The babe latched at once, sucking fiercely, as though already determined to fatten herself against the winter that would soon arrive. 

Standing outside the door, Jon heard the cry and wept. 

____________

It was not till many weeks later, when Oberyn's gift for the infant, a crystal rattle of a snake twined about a winter rose, that Jon dared to ask. He stared wonderingly into Rhaella's face, marveling at her skin, her hands, blowing gently on her nose, prompting her to scrunch her face in protest, before opening her eyes to blink indignantly at him. Her eyes were as blue as her mother's, no trace of violet, but then, no trace of him either. They were eyes he knew and had seen in every shade, blue, green, and brown. 

"She isn't mine."

Sansa froze. Snatching Rhaella from Jon's unresisting arms, she walked swiftly in the direction of the nursery, Jon hot on her heels. 

Sansa slammed the nursery door behind her, barely having time to place the now wailing child in her cradle, before the door rocked back on its hinges and Jon strode into the room, a cuckold and, at last, every inch the king he was claimed to be. 

Sansa placed her body between her husband and her child, spreading her arms wide as though she could in fact restrain him. 

"Stand aside, Sansa." Jon said, his voice cool. Sansa remained where she stood, trembling all the while. 

"I won't hurt her. I only want to know if she is who I think she is." 

"She is a princess of the North, of Westeros--"

"And Oberyn's bastard." Jon finished, flatly. "You needn't be afraid, I've a soft spot for bastards, myself." He pushed Sansa aside, leaning over the crib to gently brush his finger over Rhaella's cheek. 

"And after all," he said, softly. "It is only right. The throne of Westeros was always meant for a descendant of House Nymeros-Martell." He bent and kissed the child's forehead. "So I rename you, beloved, Nymeria."

"I must have another, Jon." Sansa whispered. "We must have another."

"I know," Jon said, straightening and fixing his wife with a sad look. "I will not lie, Sansa, I hate him for giving you what I could not. But we travel to New Kingslanding on the child's second nameday to present her to Daenerys. You ought to summon him then."

"So long," Sansa whispered, "to see my children, Jon, it's too long. I have done what I was commanded to do, is there no way-"

"I cannot engineer a kingdom's affairs to soothe your mother's heart, Sansa," Jon snapped. 

"Send me to swear my fealty to her again, and with a lock of Nymeria's hair to seal the bargain," Sansa pleaded. 

Jon considered, before nodding, slowly. "Once the child can crawl, Sansa, I think that fair."

Sansa seized his hand and kissed it. "Thank you, Jon. Thank you."   
_______________

Seven months later, Sansa rode with her retinue to New Kingslanding. Her body felt heavy in the saddle, and her breasts ached with milk. 

The Dragon Queen received her at the gates, all her court behind her, and the people of the city crowding its walls. Sansa dismounted, unable to kneel before the other queen was already upon her. 

"Queen of the North, Sansa, my sister," Daenerys said, taking Sansa's hands in her own. 

Sansa gave a low curtesy before sinking to her knees in the mud, still holding Daenaerys' hand. 

"Your most worshipful majesty," she said, "I come here to renew my vows of loyalty, and to present you the evidence of my body's commitment to the endurance your house and the peace of the realm."

Letting go of Daenerys' hand, she reached for the box, wrapped in a golden chain, that hung from her waist. Opening it, she presented to the queen the single white gold curl she'd cut from her daughter's head upon her departure, bound in thread of gold and scarlet. Daenerys lifted it, a smile on her lips, before turning to the crowd, and holding it above her head. 

"A princess for the throne!" she cried, and the crowd erupted into cheers. 

She turned back smilingly to Sansa. "Rise, my good-sister. I am well pleased with your gift."

Sansa rose, her dress stained with mud. 

"You know the Prince Oberyn," Daenerys said. 

Sansa's breath caught as Oberyn stepped forward from the crowd. 

"I imagine all the world knows Prince Oberyn, majesty," Sansa said, a laugh in her voice that only just escaped sounding forced. "How are you, my Prince?"

"Most well, majesty" Oberyn said with a sweeping bow. 

"Matters of state do command me, sweet sister," Daenerys said. "I must leave you for now, but I wish your company in the small council tomorrow. Oberyn will see to your comfort and show you to your children. Come, ride with me to the keep and there we will part." 

They rode swiftly through the city, and Sansa marveled to hear the cheers of the crowd at the sight of the twin queens of the realm, one copper, the other silver. Sansa was glad to have worn her hair loose as she anticipated the queen would have done. From the corner of her eye she saw Daenerys' hair tangle with her own. 

When they alighted, Dany kissed Sansa on the cheek. Her lips were cold. 

"Until later, sister." she said, before sweeping away. 

"Sansa!"

Sansa spun at the familiar voice. Arya came bounding down the stairs, her long dark hair streaming behind her. 

"Arya," Sansa choked, her eyes welling with tears. "Oh, Arya, come here, sweetheart."

She opened her arms and Arya slammed into her, arms strong as iron wrapping around her older sister. Arya had grown beautiful, her long face hollow and rounded in every right place. She was 30, and the thin braids in her hair, one for each of her kills, outnumbered her years. The hilt of the dagger at her side dug into Sansa's belly. 

It had been near seven years since they'd seen one another, when Arya had stood upon the battlements of King's Landing, the sword she'd plundered from Jaime Lannister's body at her side, a white dragon at her heels. 

Sansa stroked her sister's hair. "You're well?"

"Most well," Arya said with a grin. "Come, will you not see your children?" 

Oberyn cleared his throat. "I think it best that your sister be given the chance to change from her traveling clothes, my lady."

Arya laughed. "Of course, you are right. I will find Tyrion and the boys, the girls should be in the gardens. Send for us when you are ready, sister."

"I shall meet you in the gardens, Arya." Sansa replied. She hesitated before asking. "Might you ask Ser Mormont if Tyrol may be excused for the day?"

"It is already done." Oberyn said from behind her. 

Arya smiled tightly, "As the Prince says, it is already done. We will see you shortly." 

She strode away, her legs sheathed in deerskin, her boots ringing upon the marble floor. 

"Your majesty," Oberyn said, offering Sansa his hand. 

Sansa took it, walking easily up the stairs. 

"How is your daughter?" Oberyn asked, his voice mild with disinterest. 

Sansa smiled. "She is well, she has the look of one of your ancestresses, after whom she was named."

"The princess Nymeria? That is fortunate, she was a most beautiful woman. And wise. "

"And what of your children, my prince?"

"They are well. And I have been made a grandfather thrice over."

Sansa laughed. "My sincerest congratulations, though to me you will always appear too young for grandchildren."

"Your majesty has a gift for flattery. And I accept it most gratefully."

They stopped before a heavy door. 

"These are your chambers, majesty. There are handmaids ready to supplement your retinue. Please, do not hesitate to send for me if there is aught you should require."

Sansa paused, her hand on the doorframe, speaking quietly over her shoulder. "I've a mind to practice putting my hair in the Dornish style, so to better instruct my daughter Ursula. Know you of any one capable to the task to teach me?"

Oberyn tsked. "The lady Ursula has already begun her instruction in Dornish customs and courtesy."

"I see." Sansa's voice had gone flat. Oberyn rested his hand just above hers, the tip of one finger hovering just above the first knuckle of her ring finger. 

"But if the queen of the North still wishes to wear her hair in the Dornish style, in honor of her daughter Nymeria, she need only ask." Oberyn retreated before giving a low bow. "I will return for you in half an hour, majesty, then to guide you to your children."

Sansa nodded, her mouth dry, before stepping into her chambers. Her retinue awaited her within, and she snapped her fingers for two maids to follow her to her bedchamber and closet, removing a gown of grey silk, cut in the fashion of the South, that her children might better recognize her. 

Her hair was combed and oiled until it shone again, hanging loose and untangled down her back.

Her hands and feet were washed, her underarms cleansed, her groin soothed with cool cloths and a chilling ointment.

When Oberyn returned for her, she'd been changed into a ghost of the Lady of the Rock, paler than before, the color of her hair darkened by the sunless days of the Northron winters, a coronet of iron on her head. 

"I am ready, my Prince."

Oberyn's gaze assessed her, roaming from the crown of her skull to the tips of her toes. 

"So I see, your majesty. Please, follow me, your children await you in the garden."

They walked again arm in arm. Sansa had bade her retinue remain where they were and not to follow. When they'd traveled some way, Oberyn pulled Sansa into a dark alcove. 

"How is our daughter, truly?" he asked, his eyes searching her face. 

"She is well, I swear it."

"And Jon does not suspect?"

Sansa's throat tightened. 

"Sansa?"

"He knows," she croaked. 

Oberyn cursed. 

"He will not hurt her, or me," Sansa cried. "He loves her, for she is part of me. He knows as well as I that the throne was always meant for House Nymeros-Martell. He calls it justice. And he has bade me to make another child."

Oberyn sucked in a sharp breath. "Is he mad?"

"Was it not you who said that if Jon should die without heirs we risked war? That you would not sacrifice more daughters to Targaeryen pride?"

"It is too soon, Sansa-"

"It need not be now. But come to Winterfell again. Say it is to visit the new princess named for your house. And then stay long enough to give me another child."

Oberyn nodded slowly. "When shall I come?"

"After Nymeria's nameday. Six months from now. Now, Oberyn, please, take me to my children."

Oberyn seized her in a fierce kiss, palming her belly before crushing her to his chest in an embrace. "You give me and my house a mighty gift many times over." he rumbled, "I will be sure to make my thanks known to you while you are here." He kissed her once more, tenderly, before stepping out of the alcove, and leading her to the gardens. 

When Sansa saw her children she was lost for words. 

"They've grown," she said at last, her voice thick with tears. 

Jaron's hair hung loose about his shoulders, gold and copper mingled together. At fifteen he already had Tywin's broad shoulders, his height, but his eyes were Eddard Stark's. 

Ursula and Tyrol, both thirteen, were of a height, both having inherited their mother's slender build. But Tyrol's coloring was his mother's, fair skin that only turned fairer with sun, while Ursula was streaked with gold wherever the sun kissed her. 

Germaine at twelve looked the most a Stark, her cheekbones high and hollow, her eyes a stormy grey, her hair, though gold as wheat, falling in the same tumultuous waves as her aunt and great aunt's before her. 

Lyrra was ten years old and in nearly every way Sansa's double, save in spirit. She wrestled her brothers in the grass, giggling madly, flower petals caught in her hair. 

"Go and meet them," Oberyn coaxed her, allowing himself to discreetly brush the back of her neck with his fingertips. 

Sansa took a tentative step forward, then broke into a run, calling her children's names as she went. They turned at her voice, staring with wide eyes before letting out shouts of joy as they each scrambled to meet her. Germaine reached her mother first, leaping to catch her about the neck, Ursula and Tyrol close behind, Jaron with Lyrra bringing up the rear. They sat in a huddle on the grass, Lyrra worming her way to nestle herself in her mother's lap, Germaine and Ursula touching Sansa's hair and face, while Tyrol and Jaron each clutched one of her hands, struggling to hold back their tears. 

For the first time in many years, Sansa wept freely.   
_____________

There were two more children born to the King and Queen in the North after Nymeria: Baelon, a son as fair as his sister, and Lynaes, who inherited her mother's hair, and an olive coloring credited to a distant ancestor. There were whispers of a twin to Baelon, a tawny monster who'd died at birth, but they soon diminished after Daenerys proclaimed the three her heirs, Nymeria to be high queen, Baelon and Lynaes as their sister's junior monarchs and her spouses. 

Three years after the reunion in New Kingslanding, Ursula Lannister was wedded to Quentyn Martell. Though many years her senior, Quentyn regarded his bride tenderly, wrapping the Martell cloak gently about her shoulders. 

Sansa watched, tears in her eyes as she cursed Tywin and his fallen house that sent her daughter so far away. 

And the lord Oberyn stood with his only son, Eli, as dark and lovely as his father, as witness. 

They stood there again for Germaine's marriage to the new Lord of Hellholt, for Lyrra's consecration to the crown as her aunt's protégée, and for the triple betrothal of Nymeria to her siblings. 

Sansa would stare longingly at her dark skinned son, wishing always for the excuse to reach and stroke his cheek, to hold him in her arms. At last it arrived. On the day of Nymeria and her siblings' coronation, while Oberyn stood proud and golden in the noonday sun, his heart seized, and as Eli called his father's name, Sansa took him to her breast, kneeling in the dust, and her son, who'd not yet lived 6,000 days, thought himself an orphan.   
_________

Many years later, when the Queen in the North learned that Margaery of House Tyrell and Blackfyre lay dying, she sued her husband for permission to go to her, invoking the many years of friendship shared between her and the Rose of Highgarden. 

She traveled south to Highgarden at breakneck speed. 

When she arrived she waved off the customary welcome of Aegon and his children, demanding to be shown to Margaery's bedchamber without delay.

For the last days of Margaery's life, Sansa was her most tender nursemaid, sleeping beside her every night, changing every third hour the pungent bandages the covered the ulcerous swellings that sat in every joint of Margaery's body. She combed Margaery's hair as the other woman slept, braiding it with flowers as she had done when they had lived for those short if several months at Casterly Rock before Margaery's marriage to Joffrey. 

Margaery reached up to stroke Sansa's cheek. "How I wish I'd been born a man," she groaned, her voice double timbred with pain. "I could have wed you then. Done all I wished to do. Brought you here to Highgarden," and her hand slipped from Sansa's face to press instead against the other woman's belly, "given you children. Oh gods. Would that I could have given you a child even as we are. That everything between us might not vanish when we die."

"We will go mad if we think this way," Sansa whispered catching beads of sweat from Margaery's brow on her fingertips. "Let it be, sweetheart. We had six happy years in all, let that be enough."

"It can never be enough," Margaery sobbed. 

Sansa's voice trembled, "No, never. Never at all."

They lay in the bed together, two women not yet old, grey tinted heads pressed together, weeping quietly, kissing occasionally, and tracing the features of each other's faces, so that when the Stranger came, he could not steal memory as well as life. 

When dawn arrived, Margaery lay stiff and cold in Sansa's arms. Sansa stared unseeing at the wall before her, still absently stroking Margaery's hair, mumbling prayers to any gods that would hear her. 

She entered the great hall, her long braid, into which she'd woven a lock of Margaery's hair, hanging down her back, ashes in her hands.

She stood before Aegon, who'd watched her progress with a combination of revulsion and fascination and said: "The lady of the house is dead. Give me her body to wash and bury in the sept. I loved her best of anyone in the world."

Aegon nodded wordlessly, before turning back to his meal. 

Sansa went into the courtyard and summoned the maids to cover the windows of Margaery's bedchamber, and to pack her round with ice, while Sansa washed her body and said the prayers, and painted the stones to set upon her eyelids. 

Long after the final stone had been sealed over Margaery's grave, Sansa lay beside it, her eyes dry, her voice dead, her heart heavy. The last of her lovers dead, her youth had become a distant island. 

She returned to Winterfell the next day, arriving in time to hear the news of the birth of her royal grandchild as it arrived on the raven's wing from New Kingslanding.

She summoned her dresser, and commanded her hair be reset in the Dornish style. 

The lock of hair she'd cut from Margaery's head, she burned that night in the Godswood where she'd burned Germaine and Arya's only a few years before. She closed her eyes, and welcomed the Stranger even as he stole the breath from her lungs.   
_______________


	2. Update: Expanded Edition

Dear readers,

There are a lot of things wrong with Detritus. In particular, a woeful disrespect for the basic laws of geography, some misspellings, hideously bad smut, and some unforgivable clichés. But more than anything, it’s too short for the story I want to tell. 

There are half a dozen Sansa fics languishing in my google docs, ones I’m not ready to share if for no other reason than I am in my last push through my undergraduate career (4 more weeks!!!) and instead of turning my attention to them immediately after commencement, I’ve decided to turn Detritus into the novella it deserves to be. 

The current form will remain where it is until I am roughly halfway through the expanded edition, at which time, the new chapters will take its place. 

Thank you dears, let me know your thoughts in the comments/if there is anything in particular you’d like to see more of. I can’t promise you’ll get everything, but you’ll definitely get more of what really matters (*cough Oberyn and Margaery *cough).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch this space over the next few months!!

**Author's Note:**

> Final author's note: IDK, man, I haven't had wi-fi in over a week and I've been able to jerk off like twice, I had NEEDS and I wrote them.


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